


as you are (he is)

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom John, Breathplay, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Watson Whump, John Whump, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nightmares, POV John Watson, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13275108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: You wake up after a nightmare (the same one, always the same one), and Sherlock is there.Some nights, there is only one thing to help you: when Sherlock bears you down.





	as you are (he is)

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the toplock fanbook (check it out on tumblr!)...

You often fall, but it isn’t you.

Arms outstretched, your jacket (coat) opens up around you like wings. It’s either an optical illusion or a lie. These wings, you know, won’t help you fly. They’ll let you fall. They’ll let you fall until you hit the pavement, and your skull cracks open on the ground: your skull, as delicate as porcelain, shattering as easily as a tea cup that’s knocked over.

You know this implicitly; you know this inside your bones. When your arms are outstretched and your jacket (coat opens up around you like wings, this won’t save you. It never does. Did it happen before—is that how you know it? Have you seen this before? The knowledge comes in flashes, sudden and bright and then already fading: outstretched arms; a coat like wings; the crackle of a phone line; the tips of shined shoes over the edge of a roof; wind, rushing.

The scene is not static, and it changes: rooftop to four walls, a floor, a ceiling. (A room.) In it, people.

The flashes are numerous here, even if you weren’t there when it happened. Fragments of words like  _ ary _ or  _ Sher _ or  _ not _ —voices that break (because how could they not?)—light eyes wide with incomprehension. The flashes are more permanent, more fatal, here: an index finger on a trigger; black fabric rustling with someone’s change of posture; an index finger exerting pressure; then a low, short  _ ping _ . After a second, white fabric that turns red. Behind the fabric, flesh that is opened neatly around a small circle, filled with a bullet.

A  _ thump _ . The dull, heavy  _ thump _ of a body that hits the floor.

That definitely hits the floor, this time.

*

You fall, but it isn’t you.

You watch it happen: the arms engulfed by defective wings, the body swaying forward, the tips of shoes tilting downwards, the wind rushing stronger to meet the momentum of the impending fall—

Not your fall, though. Never your fall, however much you wish it were.

But wishes, you know, are just despair that begins rotting. This, you know explicitly.

You fall, and it isn’t you, but it is you, too.

Just in other ways.

*

You are shot, but it isn’t you.

You watch it happen: broken voices that grow silent, a gun that fires, a body lurching backwards in another fall, and there is no wind here, only light eyes that close and a white shirt that stains—

Not your death, though. Never your death, however much you wish it were.

But wishes, you know, are just infections of the heart.

You are shot, and it isn’t you, but it is you, too.

Just in other ways—

*

—in ways that are irreparable, in ways that nobody can fix.

Sometimes, the body with a hole in the chest on the floor moves. The hand reaches for a nearby gun. Brings it under the chin in clear intent.

The finger rests on the trigger so, so ready.

The second shot is never happening, and it’s always happening: Schrödinger’s cat. The box is open, you know the cat is alive, but there was an error in the experiment. Too many attempts or one too toxic variable, whatever it was—your brain stopped working. The box is open, you (should) know that the cat is alive, but you don’t. In your brain, the cat is alive, but it keeps dying.

It just keeps dying: the finger rests on the trigger, so, so ready. It never moves. It doesn’t have to.

A fall; a shot; another almost suicide. You fall, and you are shot, and you almost shoot yourself, and—

it’s you  _ but it isn’t you _ , Jesus Christ, fuck,  _ fuck _ , it isn’t you, it isn’t you, why is it never you? Damn it, you wish—you wish—you  _ wish _ —

Wishes are just despair that begins rotting; wishes are an infection of the heart.

And oh, God, is your heart not infected? Is there not a grief that festers there, cancerous? Is there not a terror you cannot shake, laying waste to the order in your brain, shud-d-d- d e  _ r i n g _ between your bones, quivering in the chambers of your heart, like—

like Sherlock leaving—

like the sound of it: the flutter of fabric in the wind; the  _ thump _ of his body hitting the ground

like the sight of it: his love, soft in his eyes yet deathly in his hand holding a gun under his own chin to spare you

like Sherlock leaving—

*

“John.”

Through a haze, a voice. You can’t hear it properly. Your pulse is too loud; blood rushes in your ears; together they are tempestuous waves crashing, drowning ships. This is you: merciless body tossed (tossing itself) around, bones rattling like masts in a storm as Sherlock somewhere out on the bloody sea siren calls, “John,” and, “ _ John _ ,” and you would crash your ship on the rock where he sings would reach the shore safely if he waited there would die or would live if it meant you could keep him but—heart: st-stutt-ters; “John,” his voice, there—where?— _ but _ —

Cannot be kept: Sherlock cannot be kept: he’s leaving, he’s always—“Leaving—” choked from your mouth. “Y-you’re—”

“John, you need to breathe more slowly,” the voice says, Sherlock says, so close. Your ear? “Will you do this for me? Breathe—”

Can’t. Even for Sherlock, you can’t. Heat like fresh shell explosion oppressive in your temples, palms, chest; skin tight thin over hollow bones. Can’t breathe. If you breathe you’ll disappear. Jesus, if you breathe—you  _ can’t _ —

“—slowly, you’re hyperventilating. Tachycardia, clammy hands, tremors—panic attack. Can you hear me, John? Can you hear me?”

—a nod. There, you—you manage that: a nod; stuttered, but—there. Shifts, your hair—on the pillow—scraping your scalp. Hypersensitive.

“Good, that’s good. I need you to—”

Where you lie—a mattress—bed—dips, jostles. Clarity is fleeting. This: your body, panicking, coiled tightly; Sherlock: stretch of heat at your back, curled over you. He moves. Arm forced under your head—carefully—and then warmth in your face.

“Breathe,” Sherlock says. “Breathe with me. Through your nose: one, two, three, four—hold. Hold. Five. Six. Seven. Open your mouth, breathe out, eight—nine—ten.”

You try. Four stuttering cycles, your breathing matches Sherlock’s; six, you haltingly begin to count on your own all while breathing into his palms, cupped over the lower half of your face in an almost airtight seal. Against your back, his chest. Moves.  _ Alive. _

“Over-breathing, imbalance of CO2. We need to extract the excess of oxygen from your blood—breathing into my hands helps. You’re a doctor, you know this. It’s a panic attack. You’re not dying, you’re fine. Yes, like that, John. Breathe. Good.”

His deep voice, soothing, grants short-lived lucidity: very slowly, your body remembers what it is meant to do. The shock of heat recedes, and the tremors in your limbs abate until only imprints of them remain in sickly shudders rendering your legs weak. When most of the panic is gone, you come back to yourself somewhat, blinking rapidly into the darkness. You are damp in places—the small of your back, your chest, your armpits—and the sweat cools rapidly. Sherlock’s hands are gone from your face, and you only feel where they are because your own are clamped around his wrists. You hold them over your chest tightly, and you don’t let them go. You don’t let them go.

You can’t. Sherlock could leave.

“—leaving,” you heave, finally, that cursed awful word, out your throat. Again: “You’re—leaving—”

Sherlock: could leave. (Right now.) Sherlock has left; Sherlock does leave; Sherlock  _ will  _ leave. He is leaving—always— _ is always leaving _ , whispers panic as sickly its surge slithers through you like torture, like—irrational, fuck, shut up  _ shut up  _ you loathe—loathe it, you loathe—it  _ what _ —the truth of it the exposure the bareness the vulnerability of stretched neck bared belly but—“F-fuck,” a whisper high-hurt whine; loathe it but can’t help it, “Jesus, ffffuck,” can’t help truth slipping through grinding teeth out your throat “Don’t—” which “leave—” God, stretch, which you stretch, your throat, back, back, bared— “ _ please _ —” with your jaw clenched tight, tight, a tendon there sticking out, hurting, loathe it but can’t help it—

Irrational panic, doesn’t shut up, never shuts up, so—fucking— _ persistent _ .

Dream fragments flicker ghostly white in darkness.

(fluttering coat)

(a curled finger)

(a trigger)

(a skull—

“Mmmh, Jesus, no—God, no.” Vowels tumble out shivering. (skull— “B-blue,” g-gasped, (cracked open— “Sher-Sherlock—” cracked open like a tea cup “blue, Sherlock,” hoarse into mattress, body fevertight writhing as delicate fragile tea cup spills tea like bone spills crimson—

“ _ blue _ ”

thick crimson from bone cracks on asphalt—

Abruptly, pain: the sting of daggers scratching your scalp as fingers grip; tighten;  _ pull _ . Your head, dragged back. Neck, stretched; Adam’s apple, jutting. Mouth slack, lips parted. On your clavicle, Sherlock’s (other) heavy palm—resting—and upwards, fingers curled around your throat—digging in, digging—your pulse against the side of his index finger jerky-wild. Unmistakably alive, you. Awake. Not dreaming.

Abruptly—his hand fisting your hair and the other around your throat—pain: pain and silence. Blessed, perfect silence. No more throbs of  _ leaving  _ a manic incoherence inside you, just that of your heart in his hand. Cradled there, safe.

“Shhh,” murmured against your temple. Warm breath, damp lips catching on skin sticky. “I’m here, John. Right here. I’m not going.”

Sherlock—who is not going—right here. Your eyes flutter shut, a bit. Hope like acid at the back of your throat, on the centre of your sluggish tongue, the tip of which Sherlock— _ Christ _ —the tip of which Sherlock leaning forward bending awkwardly sucks on. Hard. Insistent.

Position awful his fist twists  _ brutal  _ your head to the side. Neck jerked; pain-contortion sparks a noise that is lost in his mouth: in his mouth that swallows high-pitched pleasure.

“I’m not going,” he says, low voice so hot-close it booms behind your sternum, stays there.

In the room, all else grows silent-still. Absolute tranquility. (You.) (Your head.) The darkness around you falls. It settles and deepens.

“Wait here.” His palm petting heavy down your nape, stops at your shirt. “I’ll take care of you.”

You: filled with peace, sweet peace.

You: go still. Give in.

Surrender.

*

In the military, individual bodily autonomy belongs to the group, the unit; to duty. You give your body up, abandon it. The military was your first surrender.

Long ago, there was a conversation on a bench about exes and previous somethings. Sherlock, indicating there was a  _ previous _ commander, ultimately conceded, that no, of course you did not currently have a commander. His small, fleeting smile: the only acknowledgement of the truth, accommodating your pretences as always.

This is no longer the case. 

Now, when you say, “Blue,” he knows what to do. He's become better at code words after the disaster with his sister. Now, when you say, “blue,” he is there, unfailingly, and there are no more pretences, only your second and last surrender:

*

your throat in the tight embrace of his hand.

His coveted hand: long fingers span the width of your throat, thumb on soft under-jaw flesh, index and middle finger on curve of jaw-bone, holding your face steady. You let him, you—just letting him—would tilt your head back and stretch your throat to complete exposure if he wanted. But he doesn’t. (Not yet.)

He just squeezes that coveted hand under which your carotid pulse mad-rapid thu-thump-thu-thumping goes as lips rub and rub and rub together. Technique long lost: wet-messy his mouth eats away at yours smearing saliva beyond lip corners.

For moments long, and long, and long.

Your throat in the cup of his palm squeezed—squeezed— _ squeezed _ . Receding dark-tinted vision noticeable in black-dotted blinking against the dim lamp light and a pressure in your chest as if someone’s sitting on it: no air. His hand on your throat; his greedy kissing mouth—where your oxygen goes, where you surrender is. You could breathe through your nose but don’t. This is surrender, your throat, his hand; your air, his command; your pulse, his grasp. You trust him.

He trusts you. You don’t breathe through your nose.

Lips part: smacking. “Okay?” murmured into your cheek.

Nasal vocalisations— _ mmnh _ —the only sound from between your pressed lips. You don’t speak: don’t want to and shouldn’t. If he doesn’t kiss you you have to keep the air somehow.

Like this: there: chest tightens. Pulled together, then pulled together in stitches—stit-t—

Between your legs, his fingers shove. Shove up to next knuckle the second knuckle up _up_ until three fingers thick broad he is inside you and your bent-up leg on his shoulder _jerks_. “Jeeesus,” you slur-moan into his hair as gasping you greedily gulp in air.

“I told you—” Nuzzling at your jaw. Hot breath washes your neck in shivers. Twist of the wrist and you between sopping legs squelch as your face flushes redder. “—I take care of you.”

Admonition is his tongue against yours, rubbing over, under, around. Slickly rubbing like his wet fingers burn past the stretched centre of you right over that hot-coiled knot—over, over, _oh_ -over, as folded in half your belly twitches and something feverish dissolves at the top of your thigh. An ache: a molten ache that spreads down your leg on his shoulder, a slow ache toe-curling as through hazy vision you watch your toes spread and pull in.

A sudden motion, and out pop Sherlock’s fingers wetly as he rears back on his knees. Your leg sags onto the mattress while teeth gritted you keep a whine mute: sitting up Sherlock takes care to put a very precise amount of weight on the arm holding you down, choking—choking c-carefully— _ Jesus _ : your chest suddenly drum tight while wire-crossed nerves vibrate electric-white-hot. A soft, “Ngah,” gasped wet and thick from the back of your burning throat, and eyes closing your chest contracts as thoughts cloying become denser—slower—just… a little… fuzzy…

Pressure recedes. Fingers loosen—loosen just—Christ, thank God—just a bit, cradling instead of gripping. Slow blinking brightens darkened-foggy sight until Sherlock is there who despite red-cheeked blotchy-necked flushes and wet-eyed emotion asks terribly clearly, “All right?”

Lower lip, inside your mouth: bitten—gnawed on by voracious teeth. Behind them, words are trapped.

More emphatically, very carefully, Sherlock repeats, “All right?” and after you only hazy-eyed gaze up at him the strain on your throat eases further, and you desperate-gasping clasp trembling hands over his wrist; keep it there pressed down and—finally—tip tip tip your head back bend your neck push your stretched throat into the cup of his hand until when you swallow your Adam’s apple drags against his palm: up—down—

You say, “Yes,” you say, “ _ more, _ ” garbled whines that make Sherlock huff a laugh before mouth flat again he says, “Turn over,” so he can fuck you, which he will do. But it isn’t a fuck. This is not ever a fuck.

You flip yourself over. Soft-warm on your face: pillow. Arms raised ‘til ear-level you knead it in nervous impatient fingers. It would be damp if you were breathing but in your throat the last inhalation is stuck: anticipation. No, worse, a need—need like starvation needs to be filled that sick hollowness of body and slow degeneration of mind whose filling is imperative and you were Tantalus all your life  _ and you never knew _ Jesus Jesus Christ how did you never know you were always reaching  _ for _ only just reaching for never actually  _ reaching _ how did you why did you never—

Behind you, Sherlock shifts—crawls over you on all fours but keeps himself poised there bodies not touching except: his lips between your shoulder blades where you have no wings and he has no wings. He kisses your lack of wings. He kisses your humanity: a soft, gentle, chaste kiss, a single kiss. He will fuck you, but this isn’t a fuck. This is restoration—elevation—exaltation. This is trust.

This is  _ reaching _ .

That single kiss.  _ I will take care of you. I’m here. I’m not going. _

Sherlock is not going.

He is here: the backs of his thighs sweat-sliding on the backs of yours; knees on either side of your hips; upper body a hot blanket over your waist and back and shoulders. Sherlock is not going as his three middle fingers pushing the cheeks of your arse apart spread you open so the head of his cock catches on your hole; opens you up muscles forced like ripe fruit under knife apart: wet, skin-muscle-tight, then soft-inside-flesh just yielding. Blink-blink-blinking into the pillow you make, “Ah,” and, “ah,” and, “ _ ah _ ” glory-pained sounds between staccato breaths and heartthrob in your temples with every inch forward.

Then—Sherlock scrapes his (stubbled) cheek over the side of your face, breathes, swallows; says, “I’m here,” faint but so close it’s loud; brings his arm under yours forces it up; cradles your throat in his large hand.

On the sides of your hips, his knees shift for leverage. On top of your thighs, his thighs tense; flex. Pull back—and shove. Pull back—and shove. Pull back—

“I’m here,” he rasps hot in your ear wet in your ear as he licksucks its shell, “I’m  _ here _ .”

— _ shove. _

A brutal rhythm; frenzy-fast pounding from the start fucking the irrationality right out of you. His balls slapping your skin where thighs become arse louder than your pulse. Only gasping, you: repetitive little “oh”s and “ah”s as if it’s your first time being fucked when in reality every time you  _ reach  _ is like the first. You: Tantalus no longer as he slams into you. You’re done reaching for because you are right here where Sherlock is whose punishing squeezing grip on your throat is delectable because it makes your sight white out your chest burn stutter makes you gasp harder, harder—

“H-harder—” mutter-whinged into pillow saliva-drool-wet smeared all over chin and cheeks

when he stills.

Just stills: stills and breathes. The sudden silence rings in the rushing of your ears but is drowned out by his rapid panting close-up: his panting, his wet panting, like a sob just-so caught. Very slowly Sherlock shifts his knees back very slowly he is lying down on top of you fully all hot heavy weight anchoring you down keeping you here. His body all over you inside and out covering you: toe-to-toe and chin on the top of your head. His thick swallowing you feel there.

A moment later, the hand not on your throat pries your death-grip from the abused pillow and tangles fingers. The hand not on your throat holds yours as he lies like this on top of you—just holding—bone-crushingly tight. Breathing. Then the hold softens, gentles, changes, exerts another kind of pressure: away from the pillow.

Away from the pillow.

To his hair.

A full-body shudder before thoughts consciously connect: hair—head—(skull—no.

_ No. _

You choke even  _ skull  _ as Sherlock is just holding your  _ skull no  _ throat loosely without squeezing. “No,”  _ skull cracked  _ whine shudders through teeth chattering teeth shattering body  _ shattering skull skull like tea cup spills tea like bone _

“Yes,” Sherlock says over the noise in your head. The hand on your throat forces your head to the side so you feel his cheek against yours which is wet like yours is wet. When he speaks you feel it— “Yes,” he says, hoarse but fierce, lips moving on your skin because he is real this is real, “feel this, John, feel my head, feel—”

— _ bone spilling crimson from cracks _

“—no cracks,” Sherlock lies: there are cracks in his voice, splinters, stone grinding so hard it breaks. His hands on you is cracked too with tremors around your throat your breath your pulse and in his hair, oh, God, his hair his  _ skull _

everything cracked, cracked, ugly bolt-like tears in everything—

“—no cracks on my skull,” Sherlock says panting wet again only this time the sob is not caught: it is ugly in your ear pained hot damp vocalisation of grief and real, so real—

Real like his—his—his  _ s- _ skull, which—trembling his hand is still strong keeps yours there to guide it through thick messy hair over a perfect roundness over the perfect smooth roundness of a whole uncracked skull

over—

“No cracks on my skull,” Sherlock says as if he has heard the wish you howled years-long unanswered into loneliness. “No cracks on my skull, John, it’s not real—”

—over the perfect unmarred roundness of Sherlock’s whole uncracked skull.

“John, I’m here, John— _ John _ .” Him saying your name like obsession as if he’s saying,  _ you are leaving, John, you are leaving, don’t leave me— “ _ —here, I’m here and real and I love you—”

Whole, uncracked skull. Living, breathing body on top of you. No cracks, no thumps, here.

No cracks. No thumps.

Sherlock who just keeps dying with his finger undecided on the trigger so ready the trigger that is not pulled the finger that never moves but that does not have to move because after a fall a shot another almost suicide the finger need not move any longer because Sherlock is—he is as you are—

Here.

Here, and loved, and loving.

The thought echoes. In the room, all becomes silent-still; all becomes tranquil. You. Your head. The darkness in you falls, but it does not settle and deepen and instead gives way to peace: sweet peace: inviolable peace, this, him, here, taking care of you, of you, who surrenders, who at last wholly, irrevocably surrenders.

You open your eyes.

Before you: there he is. His face half illuminated half in shadow, but it is so very familiar to you you don’t need light to make out its shapes. Sensation steers you along. Light eyes are red and glinting because his lashes flutter rapidly and wetly over your forehead. His  cheek is pressed against your temple. Against the side of your nose, his lips stick. In the stillness, you feel them quiver.

The thin breath you inhale quivers too.

“I’m here,” Sherlock whispers. “I’m—”

And then you do it: you raise your head a bit, blinking, and you speak. There are no longer words behind your teeth because they are out and untrue: he is not leaving. His skull is whole. He is alive. He is here.

“‘Course,” you say not in a whine or a groan or panicked but in your normal voice. It’s gruff and hoarse, wet gravel. You clear your throat, but to no avail. “‘Course you are.”

He is here.

“... Of course,” he echoes, and his laugh is a feeble huff on your cheek. Above it, your temple grows wetter as he blinks fast. Your words are superficial but your eyes communicate everything through saline. “Of course I am.”

“Yeah.” God, it takes courage—to tilt your head so you can look up at him, and even in the dim light the moment of your crying eyes meeting is a shock. You breathe through it and lean up a bit: drag the tip of your nose down the (damp) nasolabial fold closest to you, give a single, chaste kiss to the corner of his lovely mouth.

“I’m not—I’m not leaving again,” Sherlock says into the hot space between your faces, hushed and fast, as if he needs to get it out. Maybe he does. “John.”

His face is so close you breathe his words in:  _ I’m not—I’m not leaving again. John. _ The smile on your face feels unfamiliar, but it’s there. You press your face against Sherlock’s to let him feel that small, shivery curve of lips, against which his hair tickles as you murmur, “I think—I think I know. Now.”

On his head, your fingers relax, and your palm slides back slowly to curve around his beautiful uncracked skull. Sherlock lets you, holds your hand while you hold him. You pass a few seconds thinly breathing like this with him staring back at you. You’re shaking, all over. It’s a good shaking.

When Sherlock draws back after a felt eternity and asks, softly, “Okay?” you answer, “Okay,” because you want to and you should. He kisses you, lingeringly, on the mouth, draws back further, and kisses you another time: kisses the wingless between of your shoulders. Just a single, chaste kiss, like before. 

He does not hold your throat now when he fucks you. There is no need to.

Instead, you keep your fingers buried in his hair, feeling out the smoothness of his scalp and the unbrokenness of the bone underneath. Sherlock lets you—just lets you—hold that wholeness in your war-shredded broken hand, in complete surrender. His hand cupping your throat is your hand cupping his skull is trust is love is  _ whole _ . Your surrender is his. His is yours. 

Instead, you reach back with your other hand to grip the back of his thigh in an attempt to push him further into you, to push harder, faster, deeper. You want him there: filling you up wherever he can. He does. Presses inside with every push of hips thick-slow making you groan small breathy satisfied when canting his hips in a different angle his cock rubs like his fingers rubbed, rubs and rubs and rubs like your moths rubbed. At one point a groan of his turning pitiful (“Knees—getting old,” huffed into your ear from behind) delights you more than the rest because of course he is here of course he is devastatingly real here: the searing thickness of him completely in you with his scratchy coarse pubic hair on your skin and the bump of his balls tight and full with desire for you all at your back. Sherlock heaving chest trembling belly heavy thighs with hot big cock up you  _ wanting _ —at your back. Shallow breathing in irregular puffs on the side of your neck, warm, damp; his hair an exertion-sweaty and in places unwashed-oily mess twined between your fingers; his sweat strong musky slightly pungent in your nostrils. Scent, texture, sensation: overwhelming, the filth-grit realism of sweat-broken-bodies.

Of your twice miracle, so human, trying so desperately to heal the infections of your heart. Which can be healed. Infections can be healed: they scar over, and fresh skin grows over them, pink, untouched, and new. On this fresh skin, he whinges, “My knees,” you—haltingly in time with the snap of his hips—mutter back, “ _ Your  _ knees?” and like so long ago on a crime scene where it all started you begin to giggle-laugh together joyful in one another’s presence: on this fresh new skin where you walk on now having left behind all these irreparable unfixable things, you are—you are as he is—

here, and loved, and loving, still.


End file.
